Fear of the worst
by Lythande1972
Summary: Someone is targeting JAG lawyers. Mac is attacked first, and Harm will be next. Can Harm save Mac when they leave her for dead? Will their terrifying experiences make a difference in their relationship?
1. An attack in the dark

God, it had been a long Monday.

Mac rolled her shoulders to try and release some of the tension as she pushed open her apartment door. She crossed the threshold, closing the door quietly behind her. She took a deep breath. She left the lights off for a moment, to enjoy the peace.

And then unexpectedly she felt a great big grin come across her face. She was free! She would be on a plane to Vancouver in the morning, and then when the conference was over, a long weekend of vacation. She would be away from the office for a whole week!

Mac hadn't been on vacation for ages, and she was REALLY looking forward to a break. No cases. No e-mail. She wasn't even planning on answering her cell phone. And she was definitely looking forward to a break from the awful tension and daily frustrating difficulties with one certain Commander.

The thought of him wiped the grin off of her face instantly. As usual when thinking about Harm, she wanted to pout, to cry, to hit something...

She sighed, wishing so hard that things were different. She loved him. She knew that. And maybe he loved her back, and maybe he didn't. But somehow they just kept hurting each other.

Why couldn't they work it out like adults?

Wow, she thought, coming back to herself...I think I was happy and relaxed for almost three seconds, there. Whoa, Sarah. She rolled her eyes at herself. Don't have too much fun all at once.

She shook her head as if that would help her get rid of the image of him, laughing at her drama, staring at her in that cocky way of his...and that uniform...

She screwed her face up in frustration. Damn that arrogant, gorgeous, confusing man. Damn him to hell. 7, no, 8 years and we still can't figure this out?

She sighed again, and tried to push him out of her thoughts. Dinner. Let's concentrate on dinner. There was hamburger in the fridge that she could -

That was when the crowbar hit her in the back of the head.

Mac was knocked prone. The blow should have knocked her out, but she was a marine - and her attacker had been sloppy and maybe not quite hit her as solidly as he could. So she had a shred of consciousness to cling to, and cling she did. Her adrenaline roared in her ears even as she felt hot, wet blood coursing over her face.

Then they were on top of her. There were two of them - two shadowy figures pinning her down, bashing her in the face and ribs and chest and stomach and...everywhere. Instantly, without thinking, she drew on all of her training. Fought her way on to her back. Got her feet up. Hooked a neck. Managed to flip one of the men over her head, throwing him against the wall.

But that was her only victory. The other man held her tight, and the blows kept coming.

Mac's head was spinning. It had only been a few seconds but they had beat her soundly. Her ribs were broken, and maybe her nose. Her attackers outweighed her by a factor if two.

Soon she was pinned against the floor, gasping against large, heavy hands on her throat, her hair sticky with her own blood. A man had his face in hers and his breath stank. It was too dark in her apartment to see his face. He twisted her hand back to an impossible angle and she felt a bone snap. She had no air to scream in pain.

Was this it, then? Was she going to die in her own living room, helplessly jumped like an extra in a horror film? This wasn't how I wanted to go, she thought stupidly. Where's my Butch Cassidy?

Oh, Harm, she thought, I'm so sorry...

Unexpectedly she felt a mouth pressed to her ear. His spit smeared with her blood. A voice hissed, "This is payback, bitch. And your pilot friend is next."

Harm was next.

Oh god, she thought. No! Not Harm. Not Harm! I have to get free. I have to warn him! She renewed her struggles with a desperation that she hadn't found before when fighting only for her own life. But her head was so heavy, and her arms were so tired, and the men were so strong...

Something hard hit her in the temple - and she spun into the dark.


	2. Harm, alone

Harm looked up from his notes. "Mac?"

The office was empty. 7:30 pm on a Monday and everyone but him had gone home. Even workaholic Mac had left almost an hour ago. She should be home by now, and knowing her, she'd be happily packing for her adventures.

He hoped that she would have fun in Vancouver. She really deserved it. She'd been having such a tough time. And the two of them had not been getting along - in fact today they'd nearly yelled at each other over this damned case. And he knew that when they fought, it just made everything worse for her.

Hell, it made HIM miserable, too.

He sighed. Why did he have to be in love with someone with whom it was impossible to get along? And who would never love him back? 8 years, now, of this awful, frustrating, almost-wonderful, almost-relationship. It was exhausting.

And yet, ...it was Mac. And he didn't seem to be able to live without her.

He felt a familiar pain, and anger, grab at his heart. Dammit. Dammit.

He fought the feelings back, as he always did. Even though he was alone. He would not give in. Not ever.

He dragged his thoughts back to his brief.

But wait - he could have sworn that he had heard her say his name. Had she left something at the office?

"Mac?" He called again. But there was no one there. Shrugging, he laughed at himself quietly. Dork. Wishful thinking. He studiously tried to ignore the fantasy that arose, unbidden, of kisses stolen right here, right now, on this desk, with no one else around...

He wasn't doing a very good job of ignoring it...

ARGH! He looked down at his papers again and forced himself to try and focus on them.

He had almost succeeded when he heard it again. This time he was sure. Mac's voice. Saying his name. Almost...pleading?

Jeez, he was really crazy.

But...but...at the same time, he suddenly felt a ...weird feeling. Like a little nauseous, a little painful...was it the beginning of a migraine? Or had he eaten something bad? Maybe he was coming down with something.

But why was he scared?

He looked up again, puzzled. He thought of Mac again. He knew she was psychic, just a little bit. Enough to find him in the endless Atlantic Ocean, when a full SAR team could not.

Was she in trouble? Was she reaching out to him?

No. NO. He shook his head as if to clear it. NO. For Pete's sake, after the fight they'd had today, he'd be lucky if she was even talking to him when she got back from vacation. She certainly wouldn't be asking him for help if she was in trouble. And she's NOT in trouble, anyway, you idiot. You just want to rescue her, don't you.

And remember how well that went in Paraguay?

He swore, quietly, and almost felt tears in his eyes. Maybe it was time to go home - he clearly was not going to be able to focus here.


	3. Mac, alone

Something really, really hurt.

Mac's brain swam slowly up from ...somewhere. She felt slow and stupid...forced herself to think, to figure out what hurt.

It felt like..._everything_ hurt. And it all hurt so much.

What was going on? Where was she? Why was she having so much trouble opening her eyes? Why was it so bright?

She tried to move ...and was rewarded with an explosion of pain from broken bones all through her. She cried out, gagged and coughed instead. Because, she realized, her mouth was taped shut.

And then she remembered.

Oh, this is not good.

Slowly, pushing herself to function through a haze, she took stock. She was lying on her side in a fetal position. Her eyes seemed to be swollen shut, not taped like her mouth. Her hands were out in front of her. She attempted to move them and her broken wrist screamed at her - she was tied to something.

Where was she? She could feel a cold surface under her, like a...tile floor. She was in a bathroom. Why was she tied up in a bathroom?

Her head was splitting and spinning and it was all she could do not to weep in pain. But if her captors were around, she didn't want them to know she was awake. Ignoring the pain, she held herself absolutely quiet and still. Listening.

Unbelievably, she heard her own neighbors through the wall.

She was in her _own_ bathroom!

And... she heard nobody else.

She stayed completely unmoving, somehow holding down the pain and nausea, for nine minutes and thirty-one seconds. She strained her ears to hear if there was someone nearby, watching her, waiting for her to awaken.

Nothing. Dead silence.

OK. She was probably alone. She could risk calling for help. Help me! help me! she screamed. The tape burned her cheeks and lips as she strained against it.

The tiniest, muffled, most pitiful sound came to her ears.

No one was going to hear that. She'd have to get attention another way.

Could she slam her feet against the wall? Would that make enough noise? She had to try. She knew it would hurt to move her injured stomach muscles to lift her legs, and she braved herself. One..two...three..kick!

Hot pain coursed through her as she viciously forced torn muscles and broken bones to move. She screamed inside, but no sound could get past the tape on her mouth. Worst of all, her legs barely budged. They felt so heavy, and hurt so badly...

They'd left her so broken she couldn't even raise her feet. She silently roared in frustration and tried again, harder. It hurt, oh god, it hurt...and nothing moved. Her head swirled with the effort and an unexplained dizziness.

She was completely useless, and totally helpless. She lay her head back down and felt the cold tile flat and unyielding against her battered cheek. Tears of anger forced their way out of her swollen eyes and tracked through the blood on her face.

She made one more Herculean effort to move, to make any noise, to signal that she was alive and needed help...but there didn't seem to be quite enough air...

_Harm_, she thought...

Her muscles went limp as darkness filled her brain.


	4. In denial

Tuesday was a long and hectic day at JAG headquarters. Harm appreciated the chance to lose himself in his work. He kept his head down. Pushed hard. Stayed focused.

He did his best not to think either of Mac or, especially, of his crazy thoughts of the night before. He shuddered, feeling just...dumb. Lovesick idiot. Of course he hadn't heard anything. Mac was fine. It was HE, if anyone, who was clearly nuts for even thinking for a moment that he was hearing a psychic call for help. Good grief.

He was embarrassed that he'd even considered such a ridiculous possibility. And so when he continued to feel a little uneasy all that day, he chalked it up to his own embarrassment. Or the beginnings of a cold. Or frustration with this damned case. Hell, it could be anything.

Anything but the possibility that it was true. That Mac was in danger. And that he knew it. No, there was just no way for him to believe such a crazy idea. It was simply impossible.

Harm was a master at ignoring his heart, and his intuition. So this was easy. He never let himself stop for even a moment to ask himself why, exactly, he didn't...quite...feel ok...

And so when the e-mail came, he barely noticed it.

It was so small, and out-of place, and unclear, that Harm almost skipped over it completely. It looked like spam, or a mistake. The return address was the kind of jumble of random numbers and letters that indicated a mass mailing - maybe an ad. But the subject line was not the usual solicitation.

"Message from a friend," it said.

Harm stopped at looked at it, puzzled. Was it spam? Or...well, maybe this was from Mac? A joke. Or even an apology - maybe she was just using someone else's e-mail account from the road. Or something.

His curiosity was piqued. He even felt a little hope. An e-mail from Mac!

He clicked on it. And then was disappointed because it certainly wasn't from Mac. It probably wasn't from anybody - just some random prank or ad that he didn't understand.

The body of the email only contained two words.

YOU'RE NEXT.

Harm shrugged. Next for what? The office fantasy football league championship? Lunch? Oh well. It was clearly meaningless. Just somebody's idea of a joke.

The fact that it felt creepy - even made the hairs on his neck stand up a little - was something that he just repressed. This couldn't possibly be a threat of any kind. Nope. Nothing to see here.

He deleted the e-mail and forgot about it.

* * *

It was many hours later on Tuesday night that Harm finally fell into bed. God, he was worn out.

But his sleep was not restful. His dreams were filled with terror.

And Mac.

Mac in danger, bleeding, reaching out to him...poachers and kidnappers and everyone he'd ever seen try to hurt her was there, running through his nightmares. He couldn't reach her. He couldn't stop it. He almost saved her a thousand times...

At 5 a.m. he finally gave up trying to sleep. He sat up and pressed his hands over his eyes, trying to force the horrible images away. Jesus, what was wrong with him?

He took some deep, slow, shaky breaths. Calm down, sailor. They were just dreams. She's fine. She's fine, right?

A tiny doubt began to tickle at the back of his mind.

He groaned at his own stupidity. Really? He was really going to let himself get worked up? By a few bad dreams? And one stupid weird feeling?

Christ, he thought. I'm just a goddamn wreck.

But he found himself checking the clock every ten minutes. When would it be seven a.m. in Vancouver? He could call her cell phone then. Just to check in. Just to say hi. She didn't even have to know why he was calling - he'd make up some work-related excuse.

Only four and a half more hours.


	5. Harm is next

It was maddening to sit around his apartment and watch the clock. Finally, at seven, Harm gave up and just went in early.

And watched the clock there.

At 9:45 he cracked - he reasoned that Mac was probably still on East Coast time anyway, right? She'd probably been up for hours while he sat here, stupidly, trying not to call.

He tried to act nonchalant as he dialed her number. 10 beeps...a click...and then it rang.

And rang.

After four rings he heard the recording he knew by heart. "Hi, this is Mac. Leave me a message."

_Damn_. Trying to sound normal, he said, "Hey, Mac. I've got a question for you about...about...about a case. Look, just...call me, OK? Thanks."

He hung up in a hurry, and noticed that his heart was racing. Once again he rolled his eyes at himself. Was it too early for a beer to calm his nerves?

He felt like such a fool.

* * *

Three more times he tried; at 11, noon, and 1. She never answered. She never called back.

She's FINE, he growled at himself. But _he_ certainly wasn't getting any work done! And more than once he thought he saw Admiral Chegwidden's eye lingering on him just a little longer than usual. Harm was not hiding his tension as well as he wished.

At 2 p.m., Harm decided to call the conference hotel. She might not be staying there, but he didn't want to ask anyone in the office where her reservation actually was. Because _then_ he'd have to admit to the office that he was worried about Mac. Because of...bad dreams. And psychic shivers.

Oh yeah. _That_ would go over well.

But the nice lady at the Vancouver Marriot said that there was no Sarah Mackenzie there. No, she didn't know if Sarah had had a reservation there, and just not showed up, or if she had cancelled it, or if she'd never had one. She could only tell Harm that no one by that name was there now. She said that she was very sorry, in the kind of customer service voice that meant that she really didn't care a whole lot, and then she hung up.

It didn't mean anything. Harm knew he had just probably guessed wrong. There were a hundred hotels in Vancouver. Maybe Mac had picked a small B&B. He'd never find her. He was being ridiculous.

He tried really hard, then, to put his misgivings away. He'd made a good effort, and Mac was probably TOTALLY FINE. She was really going to laugh at him when she saw the four missed calls on her phone!

If they still hadn't heard from her tomorrow, then maybe, just maybe, it would be worth casually asking the Admiral if he'd heard from her since she left.

Tomorrow. He could wait until tomorrow.

* * *

Harm tried really hard to pretend that he felt normal for the rest of the day. To pretend that he wasn't jumping every time his phone rang, or scanning his e-mail every few minutes to see if she had sent anything.

At last it was five, and he could leave. For the first time in awhile, he left while there were still people in the office. He packed his stuff up and walked out the door. Maybe he would go to the gym; maybe that would help him shake this feeling. Help him feel normal.

The last thing that was normal was the moment that he put his key in the lock of his car door.

Then the world seemed to end.

Harm felt a blast of heat and force — then something huge and hard and angry slammed into him. Time slowed as the planet spun around him. He hurt all over.

He seemed to be lying in a heap somewhere, his head pounding like it would burst. He felt dizzy and confused and upside down. What had happened?

He might have lost consciousness for a few seconds or minutes. He had no idea. Nothing was making any sense. His eyes were full of dust. Blood was running down his face. His ears were ringing with the echoes of an explosion.

An explosion. There had been an explosion. He tried to wrap his mind around that, but things kept slipping away from him...

Suddenly there were hands on him, and a kind voice.

"Harm. Son, you're going to be all right. Easy there."

He tried to answer the voice. His lips felt cracked and dry, and he coughed up dust. His voice came out whispery and small. "Ad...Admiral?" He squeezed his eyes open and saw Navy whites smeared with dirt and blood. Whose blood was it?

"Yes, Harm, it's me. Shhh. Don't try to move, son. There's an ambulance on its way."

He must have passed out again because the next thing he knew he was flat on his back on a stretcher. They were loading him into an ambulance. Wait...something was wrong. There was something he needed to tell the admiral. What was it? He moved his mouth but was too tired, so tired...

Harm's world stayed hazy for a long time. He saw shadows come and go...felt some pain...then relief...

* * *

He had no idea how much time had passed. At some point, he seemed to come back to himself.

He found himself blinking, and really seeing. He could see. He could think.

Slowly, he turned his head. No pain, although the room definitely spun around him with each little movement. He must be pretty drugged up, he guessed.

He was lying down in a hospital bed. He could see through a window that it was dark outside. He took a deep, shuddery breath and felt his lungs hurt. From smoke? or bruised ribs? he wondered. Well, he seemed to have survived, so he didn't really feel like complaining.

Somebody was in the room with him. He heard a chair move and turned his head to the sound. A.J. was sitting there. His uniform was unrecognizably filthy.

"Commander. It's good to see you awake."

Harm felt the same way - a surge of relief to see a friendly face. But all he could manage to say was one raspy word. "Thirsty."

"Of course. Here - I'm supposed to give you ice chips. Have one." AJ spooned it into Harm's mouth. The cold and wet felt terrific. Harm closed his eyes and when he opened them, he already felt better.

"Good...to see you...too, Admiral." He paused to rest. "Your...uniform? You...hurt?"

A.J. shook his head. "No, son, we were lucky. Nobody was near your car when it blew except you."

"My...my car?"

Someone blew up my car, he thought. My car is gone. Wow.

Maybe it was the drugs, but he didn't seem to care all that much. There was something else hiding at the back of his mind. Something more important than his precious car. What was it?

"Can...can I sit up?"

The Admiral helped him to raise the back of his bed until he was sitting. The movement made the room turn cartwheels around him, but he just closed his eyes until it passed. When he could see straight again, he looked down and saw that his right arm was bandaged and splinted.

"Yep," said A.J. "You gave yourself a broken arm. You've also got fourteen stitches in that gash in your forehead, they tell me. And a good concussion. And those - " he pointed to the bandaged hand, "those are burns. You are one hell of a lucky man, son. I don't know how you weren't killed."

Harm nodded. He'd seen people die from explosions and burns. He felt lucky indeed.

* * *

It was midnight when A.J. left. Harm didn't want to stay in the hospital, himself, but he let them convince him to stay for one night for observations. There was a police officer stationed outside of his door.

He'd refused any more painkillers stronger than Advil. As a result, by one a.m., he had a roaring headache, and his arm and hand were miserable. But he gritted his teeth. He wanted his head to clear up. There was something he needed to figure out. What was it?

Two a.m. He racked his still-foggy brain. What was he missing?

Three a.m. He stared at the clock and tried to think.

Four a.m. He was lying there, looking at the ceiling, feeling stupid...when it finally came to him.

Mac hadn't called.

A.J. had left Harm's cell phone by his bed, and Harm, fumbling, checked it with his left hand. No messages from her.

He called the nurses station to ask if there were any messages for him. They seemed surprised that he would ask at four in the morning, but they told him there had been no calls.

_Mac hadn't called._

This was not like her. They had their fights, they had their differences, they'd broken each other's hearts, but when there was trouble, she always had his back. _Always_.

Something was wrong.

It hit him, finally, with the roar of a freight train. Something was _really_ wrong.

He grabbed the edge of the bed with his good hand as he ran through the past three days in his head. It all added up. The feelings of nausea. Hearing her voice. His dreams. Her unanswered cell phone. The hotel. And now, she wasn't here when she would always, _always_, have been here.

Oh, God. _The e-mail._ YOU'RE NEXT.

He'd been next.

She'd been _first_.

Something had happened to her. God, how had he been so blind?

Fear made his hand shake as he grabbed his cell phone and clumsily dialed her number yet again. He didn't care what time it was in Vancouver. The sound of her chewing him out would be incredibly welcome. Please, let her answer...

"Hi, this is Mac. Leave me a - "

He hung up on her voicemail for the last time. She wasn't there.

She was in trouble, somewhere, and he would find her.

* * *

A.J. did not sound happy to be woken up. "Harm? Is everything all right?"

"Sir, I'm fine. I apologize for waking you. But I need to know something. Did you call Colonel Mackenzie? Did you let her know about the...about...me?"

"Commander, why are you calling me at four a.m. to ask me this?"

"Sir, I'm sorry. But please, sir, I haven't heard from Colonel Mackenzie since Monday. Have you? Did you reach her?"

"Yes, Commander, I called her. I mean, no, I didn't hear from her, but I left her a message. I'm sure she'll call you tomorrow. Is that what this is about?"

"Sir, please. Have...have you had any contact _from_ the Colonel since she left the office on Monday? Anything at all?"

There was silence from the other end for a moment. Harm held his breath. Was A.J. thinking? Or just losing patience with him?

Then finally, "No, Commander. I do not believe that I have heard from the Colonel since she left the office."

Harm made a small strangled sound. Then he pulled himself together. "Thank you. This...Sir, I think I need your help."

The Admiral chuckled, despite his clear annoyance. "You certainly do, Commander."

"No, Admiral, I think Colonel Mackenzie has been attacked. On Monday night. I'm very concerned about her."

"What?" squealed the Admiral. "Harm, have you lost your mind? Have you heard of any other car bombs going off in the tri-state area that I somehow have not heard about? She's fine, Commander. And you need a good night's rest."

Harm took a deep breath. "Admiral, please. Hear me out. She never checked into her hotel."

"She could have changed her reservations, Commander! She is a grown woman, for pete's - "

"She hasn't answered her voicemail since Monday. She hasn't called or e-mailed me or you since Monday. Is that like the Colonel, sir?"

That stopped the Admiral for a minute. he thought. "Well, no, it isn't, Commander. But - "

"Admiral, there's more." He stopped, feeling suddenly ashamed. It had taken him so long to put the pieces together. "Yesterday - two days ago - Tuesday - I received an e-mail, sir. And I think it was a threat. It said, 'you're next.'"

"Sir, I think that Colonel Mackenzie was...was _first_. And we just haven't figured it out because she was supposed to be gone. Please, I would like to check on her apartment. I'm very concerned about her."

The admiral fairly roared with frustration. "You received a threatening e-mail? And you didn't tell anyone?"

Harm sighed. "I'm sorry, sir. I really thought it was a joke. It still might be one, but I'd like to know for sure. I'd like to go to Colonel Mackenzie's apartment. And I don't have a car. So I was wondering...if you'd take me. Sir."

"Aren't you supposed to stay overnight for observation?"

"Please. The colonel could be in danger. Or...I...I just want to check out her apartment. Please."

Harm could imagine the Admiral's face, caught between annoyance, fury, fatigue, laughter, and worry.

Finally he heard, "All right, son, you win. I'll pick you up in half an hour."


	6. The discovery

Harm's broken arm and gashed head made the car ride very uncomfortable. He barely noticed. He was completely focused on their destination. Every block stretched out unbearably long in the pre-dawn darkness.

He was so thankful to the admiral for this, well, totally ridiculous favor. He just wanted to get to Mac's apartment. The whole way there, he was praying that her car would be gone; that she really had made it to Vancouver; and that the conference center employee had just mis-heard him. Or looked up the wrong record. Or she'd changed hotels. Anything.

Anything! He pleaded with the universe. Anything is fine, as long as Mac is fine. Please, God, let her be OK.

But her car was there.

Innocent and untouched. Sitting in her usual parking space. Covered with two days worth of the autumn leaves that filled the gutters.

He felt panic rush over his head like a wave when he saw it. Up until that moment, he could believe that this was all some crazy misunderstanding; that he'd been the only person attacked; that Mac would laugh her head off at him when she found out how worried he'd been. Now there was proof that something was not how Mac had planned it.

This could be very bad.

Next to him, he felt the Admiral tense as he saw the same thing.

They parked down the street and shut off their car. Harm's shooting hand was bandaged, but the admiral took out his gun, and cocked it. They didn't have to exchange a word. Harm was grateful that the Admiral didn't try to convince him to stay in the car.

They made their way quietly to her building, Harm limping but able to keep up. The early fall night - almost dawn - was crisp and clear and quiet. Harm's key let them in, and they crept up the stairs. There was no one in the halls, and the building was totally silent.

At her apartment door, they stood and listened. No sound came through the door.

Then Harm saw the smear of blood on the door frame. He felt his heart seem to drop into his shoes. His jaw tightened in anger and a cold fear.

Oh god, was she dead? She is not dead, he told himself fiercely. Snap out of it.

He had never been so scared.

They looked at each other and silently agreed to enter quietly. The admiral pointed his gun over his head - he had no desire to shoot an injured Mac by mistake.

But if she was injured, why hadn't she yelled for help?

Harm forced himself not to think of all of the awful answers to that question.

He turned the key, his clumsy left hand shaking. It made a tiny click. They froze, and stayed there for a moment, listening.

Still no sound from inside Mac's apartment. Either they hadn't been heard, or no one was there.

Slowly, Harm nudged the door open. It swung wide, creaking. They stood on either side of the door, braced for shots or...something. Nothing came.

They stepped inside. The living room was empty and even in the semidarkness they could see that it looked like a tornado had hit. Furniture was upended and a lamp was smashed. And then - the worst thing that Harm had ever seen - there was a large dark stain on the carpet, and spatters on the wall.

Harm held the contents of his stomach down by sheer will power. He was covered in sweat. He tried to wipe his forehead and was surprised to find a bandage there.

Oh, Mac, Mac, he thought desperately. Where are you? What happened? Please be OK! Please be alive!

They moved through the apartment, one room at a time. There was no one in the kitchen. There was no one in the bedroom.

Harm opened the bathroom door.

Mac.

His Mac.

He heard himself make a keening, animal sound of grief as he rushed into the bathroom. Behind him, he heard the admiral gasp.

He knelt down next to her where she lay, unconscious, covered in dried blood. The tile floor was smeared with it. Her face, what he could see of it, was discolored with black and yellow bruises. There were tear tracks through the blood on her cheeks. Her mouth was covered in duct tape. Her arms were held above her head in an awkward position - she was chained to the pipes under the sink. He could see cuts on her wrists from hanging there for two days. Her eyes were closed.

Two days! Two goddamn days!

He was hyperventilating. He felt sick. He thought he would collapse from shame and regret.

He'd known she was in trouble. Two days ago. He'd known. He'd heard her call out to him. And he'd ignored it. And she had lain here, chained, battered, without food or water. For over two days.

They'd left her here alive, shackled, too weak to move. To die of thirst or bleed to death.

He felt he would never forgive himself. But now wasn't the time... He touched her, gently. He felt her breathing. He put his face next to hers and said, gently, "Mac? Sarah? I'm here. It's Harm. I'm here." His tears spattered the floor.

And then, without even thinking, he repeated those words of love that he'd first said so long ago: "I'm going to get you through this, ok?"

She did not respond to his voice or touch. He could see that one wrist was broken, and God knew what else they'd done to her. She'd been here, in her own apartment, for over two days - so close to help! other people just on the other side of the wall! Too hurt to move, unable to scream...

Two days. He had to push his horror to the back of his mind. She was going to be OK. She had to be.


	7. Watching it unfold

Admiral Chegwidden had had a really terrible 24 hours.

First, he'd spent most of yesterday dealing with the wreck that Harmon Rabb, Jr. had suddenly become. All day he'd been asking himself, what in _hell_ was wrong with that man?

Harm looked like he hadn't slept. He'd come in early...and then not gotten anything done all day. He bit Harriet's head off. He was distracted and kept shutting himself in his office right when Chegwidden wanted to ask a question. And then at five, just when the Admiral had decided that it was time to haul Harm into The Big Office and ask him what in the hell he thought he was doing, Harm grabbed his stuff and...just left. Walked out without a word. Totally unlike his usual self.

What was going on?

A.J. sighed. He hoped that whatever was eating at the Commander would be cleared up by tomorrow. And damn, it better not be more Mac drama. For pete's sake, those two had been tearing each other apart for years. Couldn't they just get it together? Like adults? And furthermore, he realized: Mac wasn't even HERE. If she was the reason that Harm was upset - all the way from Vancouver? - well, she was just going to have to answer to her supervisor when she returned. This could not continue. He'd had Just About Enough of their childish shenanigans.

He nodded to himself in satisfaction and leaned back in his chair, feeling like he'd solved a problem. Tonight at least HE would get some rest, and hopefully tomorrow this thing with Harm would have blown over.

The sky outside his office window flashed white. A giant BOOM deafened him, and cracked his windows, and tipped over the files on his desk. He was nearly knocked out of his chair.

Grasping at his desk for balance, he snapped into disaster mode. "Everyone down!" he yelled, even as Bud ran into his office to see if he was OK.

"Get down, Bud! What happened?"

"It's not in here, it's outside, Sir," Bud gasped. Together they peered out of the window. The parking lot was filled with smoke. A.J. could see a car burning. "What the hell?"

He turned to Bud. "Is everyone OK in here? Any damage to the rest of the office?"

"Everyone's fine, Sir. No one's left yet."

The admiral's jaw clenched. He pushed Bud out of the way and ran out of the office, yelling back, "Call 911. Get an ambulance."

Harm had left.

Harm was down there.

The Admiral took the stairs two at a time and burst out of the office into a smoky haze. He covered his mouth with his sleeve and looked towards the car. It was Harm's car that was burning.

Oh, no. No, please, God.

And then he saw the prone figure, crumpled awkwardly against a wall, twenty feet from the blaze.

He ran across the parking lot and knelt by the dust-covered man. Of course, it was Harm. He was sitting half-up against the wall. He was moving as if he were conscious, but there was so much dust on his face that the Admiral hoped that Harm wouldn't try to open his eyes. He'd been blown across the parking lot by the blast, and slammed into the wall. Something had gashed his forehead and blood was running down his grey face and pooling on his shirt. His right hand was badly burned; that arm was clearly broken. A.J. made his hands stay steady and began to run them over Harm's body, looking for more broken bones. He felt Harm try to move below his hands.

"Harm, " he tried to make his voice sound soothing and calm. "Son, you're going to be all right. Easy there."

Harm turned his head and seemed to be confused. He made a noise in his throat, and then coughed. A tiny, clogged voice squeaked out, "Ad...Admiral?"

His eyes opened briefly and then shut again.

"Yes, Harm, it's me. Shhh. Don't try to move, son. There's an ambulance on its way."

"Mac..." he heard Harm whisper. And then the younger man's body went limp under Chegwidden's hands.

It was every commanding officer's nightmare. He placed his hands under Harm's head and caught him as Harm slid down the wall, easing him down to the ground. Then he turned his head and yelled up to his own office window, "BUD! Where's that damn ambulance?"

"It's on its way, sir," said a voice in his ear. Bud was there. His face was absolutely white. "Sir, is he — "

"What does it look like to you, Bud?" A.J. snapped. "He's been blown across a parking lot by a car bomb. He needs an ambulance. And we need the police. NOW."

"Right, Sir. They're - " and then they heard the sirens.

Later, A.J. could watch the memories of those moments in his head like a play; like something that had happened to somebody else. He remembered telling the paramedics what he knew. Watching as they gave Harm oxygen, splinted his neck and arm, bandaged his head, wrapped his hand. They loaded his officer onto a stretcher and then Harm was gone.

Firefighters walked in front of the Admiral, inspecting the soaked and smoking wreckage that had been Harm's car. Yellow police tape fluttered in the corner of A.J.'s vision. He stood there, watching the ambulance roll out of the parking lot, turn on their sirens, and pick up speed. His adrenaline was fading. As if coming back from far away, he slowly turned his head to look around him.

He was surprised to see that the whole office was standing there - Harriet, Sturgis, Lt. Singer, Tiner, Gunny...everyone had seen what had happened. And all of their faces were drawn and scared.

* * *

He'd followed the ambulance to the hospital, and waited with Bud and Harriet until Harm was cleaned up and put in a room. And waited some more, long after Bud and Harriet had to go home, until Harm opened his eyes.

At midnight, when he'd been satisfied that the Commander was conscious and functioning and well-taken care of, A.J. had gone home himself for some well-deserved rest. He knew that tomorrow would be a long day of conversations with the police, and God knew what else, and he wanted to get a good night's sleep.

Until Harm's phone call shattered that plan at 4 a.m.

Goddamn that boy, the admiral had thought. Has he no sense at all? Mac is perfectly fine.

But then the story about the e-mail...well, that bothered him.

Plus, you know, there was the little matter of A CAR BOMB...

Somebody had targeted one of his officers. It wasn't out of the question that they hadn't targeted only Harm.

With a sigh, he knew Harm was right. He pushed his old bones out of bed. And he grabbed his gun.

But even with what he'd already seen that day, he was not prepared for how they found Mac. For the blood on the walls. For the knowledge of what had happened to her. And he was not prepared for the grief he felt when he saw her. One of his most talented staff, and his friend. The firebrand of their office. This brilliant, articulate, razor-sharp lawyer and tough-as-nails Marine.

Tied up on her own bathroom floor in a pool of her own blood. Unconscious. Trapped. Starved.

She'd looked so small, and so beaten. It made him want to cry to think about it. And he would never forget the look on Harm's face as the Commander, bandaged and splinted and broken himself, slowly knelt down by his partner and tried to wake her.

"Mac? Sarah? I'm here. It's Harm. I'm here." There were tears running down Harms' face. "I'm going to get you through this, ok?"

For the second time that day, A.J. checked for broken bones, and waited for an ambulance. And he held Harm up as Harm shook, and held onto Mac. And they prayed that she would survive this, and that it would all be OK.


	8. Holding it together

There was one detail that Harm would never forget.

It wasn't the first, terrifying sight of her injuries. The way his heart had stopped when he entered the bathroom. Not even the tear tracks on her face.

Not the beautiful, miraculous feel of her breathing beneath his hands as he held her and waited for help to arrive.

And he remembered almost nothing of the turmoil when the paramedics and the police and the fire department had arrived and filled up that tiny bathroom with their boots and their gear and their serious faces and voices and commitment to their job.

Later, and for years afterward, what Harm would remember was one sound. The small, screeching, rhythmic sound of the saw as the paramedics cut through the handcuffs that chained her to the sink.

* * *

The sky was morning blue by the time the ambulance pulled out of the parking lot, lights flashing. A.J. and Harm climbed into A.J.'s car and followed behind in an exhausted silence.

A.J.'s mind was in full command mode; full S.E.A.L. mode. He was in charge. His men and women were in danger. It was up to him to lead, now, and get all of them safely through this.

He snuck glances over at Harm and did not like what he saw. The Commander was slumped uncomfortably in his seat, eyes staring out without seeing. His face was grey.

"Commander," he said, in his most Admiral-style voice. "Pull it together. She's in their hands, now. And God's. All we have to do is be there for her."

Harm nodded, as if from a long way away. A.J. was not convinced, but let it go – for now.

* * *

At the hospital, A.J. parked. He came over to Harm's side of the car to help the Commander out. He reached for Harm's good arm and let Harm lean on him – and then nearly buckled under the weight as the bigger man suddenly fell against him, limp. _Crap!_

"Harm!" he hissed. "Harm! Hold it together, man!"

He slowly lowered Harm back into the front seat. Harm was still conscious – he hadn't quite fainted. He sat there, breathing hard, looking greyer than ever. He looked up at A.J. with an apologetic almost-smile.

"I'm sorry, Sir. Head rush. I'll – I'll be OK in a minute."

For the second time in two days, A.J. had had enough. He leaned forward into Harm's face and spoke very quietly, and with utter authority.

"Now you listen to me, Commander. I am losing my patience. We have a lot to deal with, here, and I won't have you driving yourself, and me, into an early grave.

"I know you, Son. And I _know_ that you are blaming yourself. So I'm going to make a deal with you. I will _let_" - emphasis on let – "you come to into this hospital with me, and I will _not_ force you to check your sorry ass back in to that _same_ hospital _if_ you can hold it together. You show me that you are in good enough shape to stay standing and we have a deal. But you won't do Mac any good if you pass out in the waiting room.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Harm turned to look at the Admiral and just for a tiny second A.J. could see the great grief on his face.

But then Harm pushed it away. He turned his face back to the front, with a stony expression. Took a deep breath. He sat up straighter – and winced at the protest from a dozen injuries of his own. But the admiral was right, and he knew it. He needed to hold it together – for Mac.

"Yes, Sir."


	9. A return to the world

_Harm. Harm._

It had been black in her head for so long. She hadn't had any thoughts in so long.

It took a while for her to realize that she was thinking. That she …_was_.

That she still existed.

The first thing that Mac knew, the first thing she thought, was…was…his name.

Repeating itself in her head.

_Harm. Harm._

* * *

Suddenly she gasped, a deep breath in, as if she hadn't been breathing before.

Had she not been breathing before?

Had she been awake? Alive?

She opened her eyes and immediately shut them – it was bright, so bright…she tried to move her arms and they were too heavy. She couldn't tell what position she was in…it was all a fog…

She turned her head, or attempted to. It didn't seem to want to move too far. Something was in the way. Something was keeping her from moving her arms, her legs, her ribs were bound…

Memories flooded in.

Oh god, she thought, Oh God…I'm still here. She began to shake. She felt a fresh rush of panic and rage. _No! No!_ Please, can't I die? I'm done waiting in this bathroom. Please God. Please.

Just keep Harm safe. You can let me die. Please, end this.

She felt hot tears on her cheeks. They were like old friends; the only warmth that she had felt in her days of captivity. She felt a whimper rise up inside of her and she couldn't – quite – stifle it. Out it came. She felt embarrassed. Marines don't die with a goddamn whimper.

And then she heard his voice, and felt a warm hand on hers.

"Mac!" he whispered. She felt him stroke her hand.

Someone was stroking her hand.

_Harm was stroking her hand. _

_HARM!_

Her eyes popped open again but everything was a bright blur – she tried to sit up but she couldn't – she was gasping, stunned, trying to absorb it all.

Harm was here! He was alive! And so was she! And…and then she began to weep, hard, because she realized that she was free.

It was over.

She couldn't speak. She couldn't stop crying. Giant, ugly, racking sobs forced their way out of her. She was making this bizarre, hideous wailing sound that she hated, but she couldn't stop, couldn't stop…

She felt him holding her close, curling his body over her in her bed. "Shhh, Mac. You're OK. You're safe. I'm here. Shhh."

She was in a hospital bed. It was over. It was over.

She cried for what felt like forever. One minute and twelve seconds. Slowly the wails grew quieter, and then she was able to stop them. She was shaking, sniffling.

She felt him wipe her nose. This ridiculously intimate, embarrassing, and sort of funny gesture made her want to laugh, and helped her pull it together.

With a shaky breath, she tried one more time to open her eyes. She blinked until she got used to the light.

There he was – a little blurry. Harm. Right there. Alive.

He looked _awful_.

He had a bandage on his forehead. She could see a sling on the arm that wasn't clutching her hand. He had purple circles under his eyes. His face was covered in little scrapes and bruises. He had tears in his eyes and on his own cheeks.

She opened her mouth – she could open her mouth! – and tried to speak. It was so hard...but she finally managed to squeak out a rusty, "Other…?…truck?"

She had never been so happy to see him smile.


	10. Quiet thoughts at midnight

Saturday night.

A faint strip of light reached into Mac's hospital room through the open hallway door.

It was enough for Harm to see. Mac's face was in half-shadow, turned to him in sleep. He watched her breathing in, and out.

He closed his eyes to listen. He heard the rhythmic whoosh of one machine, and the intermittent beeps of another; an occasional measured step in the hallway. Bits of conversations floated in from the nursing station down the hall.

And beneath it all, when he focused his attention: Mac's regular, miraculous breathing.

Harm felt unaccountably serene. Even the squeaks from the springs on his fold-out sofa-chair were gentle and soothing. They made him think of crickets.

He would have laughed at himself if he hadn't felt so warm, and relaxed, and thankful, and sleepy. At the same time he felt so _alive_ - the kind of alive he had previously only felt in a cockpit. He was so happy to be sitting quietly, with nothing to do and nowhere to be. Inches away from the living, breathing, woman he loved.

He _did_ love her. He'd already known that. Yet something had changed. Somewhere in the days between watching her fly out of the office in a huff, getting his six blown nearly to kingdom come, and saving her life...something had changed.

What was it? What did he feel? Dammit, he frowned at himself, I want to figure this out.

And then it came to him:

_He_ felt...safe.

Here, in Mac's room, he felt like he could put his guard down, finally. After all of these awful years of sparring with each other, and drawing real blood.

He dug some more at that idea...

For eight years now, he'd always felt something, but he'd never put it into words. What was it?

He'd always felt...he'd always felt...that he had to…

_Protect_ himself from Mac.

Even if it hurt her.

And he had.

Hurt her.

Aw, crap, he thought to himself. What a complete jerk I've been.

He frowned at himself as he remembered their conversations in Sydney. In Paraguay. On the Admiral's back porch. On the phone after his plane crash.

What kind of asshole kisses a woman, quits his life's _career_ for a woman...and then won't admit why?

Someone who doesn't trust that his heart will be kept safe, he thought.

But...this time…

Mac was dying, and she called out to him. To _him_. Harm. Not Mic; not the Admiral; not Harriet or Chloe or Gunny. Pinned under the fists of monsters, she had called out to Harm. He no longer doubted for a minute that what he had felt on Monday was real.

She needed _him_.

He unconsciously gripped the armchair. She'd never needed him before. She'd never really asked him for help before when she had any other choice, _anyone_ else she could lean on. Oh sure, there were little tasks in the office, but the big stuff? She hadn't asked him to come to Paraguay, and she'd been rotten to him there. She hadn't asked him to nearly crash his plane and get her shot; she'd helped _him_ in Russia; she'd saved _his_ life on the _Watertown_ and on the _Hornet_.

Sarah Mackenzie was a Tough Marine, trademarked. She had to be, to survive her childhood and her career in a hostile, sexist world. She made damn sure that she did her job better than anyone, male or female. That no one saw any chinks in her armor. That no one felt pity for her. That everyone knew that she didn't need _anybody_. When Harm wouldn't give her his heart, she immediately found someone else to do so. To show that she could. That prove to herself and to the world that she was worthy of love.

She didn't trust _him_, he realized.

She didn't think he loved her.

And how could she know? Because in all this time he never, ever told her.

_He'd always felt that he had to protect himself from Mac, even if it hurt her. _

He took a shaky breath.

Not anymore.


	11. The first scary truths

Harm must have closed his eyes and drifted a little. The night ticked by, taking its time.

He roused when he heard her breathing change. Yawning, he glanced over in her direction.

She was awake. Her dark eyes were shining in the half-light, looking right at him.

He sat up too fast. "Hey. Ow. Hi."

"Hi, yourself," came a tiny, rusty voice. And a tiny, rusty smile.

He stood up, stretched what wasn't broken or bandaged, winced, and came over to sit by her bedside. He took her good hand in his good hand, which took some doing. There wasn't really any other part of her that he could easily reach through wires and tubes and plasters and tape. He felt her squeeze his fingers back, just a little.

"How are you?" he asked her.

"Um…" She seemed to pause to think about it. "Um, I'm good. Yeah. I'm good. I mean," her voice was strengthening, "I'm not looking forward to weaning off of these pain pills or going through rehab, but hey!" She looked him straight in the eye. "It's _way_ better than being dead."

He loved this blunt assessment. Like he loved everything about her. "Yep," he agreed. Then, in a teasing voice, "I'm _totally_ glad you're not dead."

She smiled again, broader this time.

How he loved that smile...

He made an effort to drag his focus back to the conversation. "What are you doing awake? It's 3 a.m."

"Three-sixteen," she corrected him. And then her face fell a little, and she looked away from him, and tried unsuccessfully to evade the question. "Oh - just couldn't...sleep...you know?"

He knew. He'd heard her have the nightmares twice already since they'd arrived here.

He did not envy her having that experience to live over, and over…

He gripped her small hand a little tighter, and leaned in. "Well, how can I help? Would you like a bedtime story, Marine?"

She looked surprised and...touched? She laughed.

"I'd like that, sailor. But here's the story I want:

"No one's told me YOUR story."

He was confused. "Um, ...my story?"

"You know. How this - " she gestured at his arm, still in its sling - "happened.

Her voice grew less carefree, more quiet. Concerned. "What happened to you? You want to fill me in?"

Oh no no no no no, he did not want to go there.

He tried to distract her. "Um, Mac, geez, that's not really a bedtime story. Can't I tell you about some little pigs, or something?"

She was quiet for a minute. Then: "Please. I...I have to know."

He felt uneasy. He was so good at denying her what she wanted. It was almost second nature. But that trick, that talent, had come close to ruining everything. More than once.

He did not want to repeat his mistakes.

At the same time, he felt he couldn't...quite...he just _couldn't_ tell her everything.

So he compromised, and started with Wednesday.

"Well, things were all normal and fine," he lied, "until Wednesday night. Someone tried to blow up my car...well, I mean, they _did_. Blow up my car. But that makes it sound a whole lot more dramatic than it -"

Even in the darkness, he could see the blood drain from her face. She looked stunned, distraught, stricken. Her hand squeezed his _hard_. Painfully.

"Jesus, Harm…! ...Jesus!"

He tried to calm her down, "No, really, see? I'm ok! I just lost a small fight with a wall. A few stitches, one measly broken bone, a couple of burns…" He wiggled his bandaged hand, forcing himself to ignore that it hurt to do so, smiling at her. "See? It's nothing. I'll be back to normal any day now. I've had harder landings in a tomcat, right?"

He was hoping to make her smile. But she wasn't listening to him. She'd turned her face to the wall. He could see new tears on her face. She pulled her hand away from him.

What was going on?

"Um, ...Mac?...You ok?"

Silence. She was shaking now.

"Mac….Sarah…."

She made a small noise. She seemed to be trying to stop crying. He felt helpless.

"Sarah. Please."

A long silence.

"Talk to me."

He heard her take a shuddery breath. "It's nothing." She made a fist with her unbandaged hand. "It's nothing. I just…it's….I…" Then with a sudden force: "I just want out of this goddamned bed! I hate these casts and these drips and this horrible hospital and why can't you just go home and leave me alone! I - "

He knew that wasn't it.

He reached out and took her hand back. She didn't fight it. He waited.

When she finally spoke again she was still facing the wall. She spoke so quietly that he had to strain to hear her.

"I….I'm so sorry."

He was confused. "Um...what?"

"I'm...I'm sorry, Harm. I'm sorry." Her voice gained strength again. "I'm _sorry_.

"Because I _knew_."

She turned her head back to face him, looking defiant.

"They told me that you were next, Harm. You. They were going to kill you. And I should have stopped them. I should have been able to _kill_ those pathetic bastards and keep them from hurting you. And I _didn't_." Her voice grew louder, angry.

"I was a _pathetic excuse_ for a marine and I let them - _I let them_ -" she couldn't finish the sentence.

"They got away with it, and they got to you, and I didn't stop them. And you nearly got killed." She was crying again.

"I am so, so sorry. It's all my fault."

She yanked her hand away from him again. "You can go. Just go. You don't have to forgive me. Please. Just go."

She turned away from him again and closed her eyes. She was still crying.

Harm knew what he had to do.

"Mac," he said, very quietly.

"Oh, Mac."

He wanted to tell her that she had nothing to be sorry about. That her attackers had hands the size of her head - he could see that from the bruises on her arms. That he honestly didn't think anyone else would have survived what she survived. That there was no way that she had _any_ responsibility for what happened to him.

But he knew she wouldn't believe him.

So instead he just said, "Mac?

"I need to tell you another story."

And he really, really didn't want to tell it.

But she needed it. She needed to know.

So he screwed his courage up, and took a deep breath himself, and said, very quietly, "I...I knew you were in trouble, too."

That got her attention. She slowly turned her head to look at him. "_What_?"

"Um…" God, he had never felt so uncomfortable! Nervous, shy, embarrassed...and _guilty_ as hell. This was miserable.

"Um…," he tried again. "We had...I missed…

"...a lot of signs….

"_I'm _sorry," he blurted out. "I'm the one who should be sorry. Not you. Sarah. Listen to me." He leaned in to the bed and awkwardly touched her arm.

"No one could have taken those two bastards out. You're lucky you survived. It's me that messed up.

"Because...because...well...we got an e-mail. In the office. _I_ got an e-mail. And it said, 'you're next.' I got it on Tuesday. But I had no idea." He felt his voice thicken. "I had _no idea_ you weren't in Vancouver. I thought it was a prank. Mac," he beseeched her, "you have to believe me. If I'd had any idea that you were in danger, that you were...I would have moved heaven and earth to find you. But I just had no clue. I- I- " Now it was his turn to look away. To struggle to contain guilty tears.

She had not said a word. She kept looking at him. Her face was still pale, and blotchy from crying. She looked so young, like a child.

"Harm - " she began.'

"Sh," he interrupted her. "There's more.

"Please let me finish or - I won't be brave enough."

She closed her mouth. He couldn't read her expression.

"I - you -" He couldn't do it. He couldn't admit it to her. That she'd called for help, and he'd ignored it.

He knew that it was understandable. He knew that it made total, logical sense that he would ignore a strange feeling that someone was ...telepathically calling him from across town. Listen to how ridiculous that sounded, for pete's sake! There was no such thing!

Except there was. And Mac had needed him, and he hadn't come.

He pulled away from her and put his head in his one free hand. His stitches hurt under the pressure, but he didn't move. He had never felt so rotten in his life.

Finally he managed to push the words out. Past lips that didn't want to move, through fingers that did their best to muffle the sounds.

"I - I - dreamed about you. And - and - I heard you call me."

She grew very still.

"You called me. I heard it.

"When...when they...at 7:30. On Monday."

"Seven thirty-two," she whispered.

And then they both were crying, and he put her good hand to his mouth, and kissed it.

"I'm so sorry, Sarah. I'm so sorry that I let you down."


End file.
